I’m Anjali, a 28-year-old young wife living in a small apartment on the outskirts of New Delhi. My marriage with my husband, Rajesh, began with a passionate college romance. But gradually, it began to crack. Rajesh was a high-paid civil engineer, but notoriously frugal. He kept track of every penny, from groceries to birthday gifts. As for me, as a bank employee, I had a steady income, but I always had to “account” for every expense.

After my father’s death, my mother, Mrs. Kamala, lived alone in Lucknow. She had heart disease and needed monthly medical attention. I often sent her money secretly, because if Rajesh found out, he would get angry. “You always send money to your mother, but what about your family? Your brothers and sisters in the village are also struggling!” Rajesh would often say this, although he still regularly sent money to his mother-in-law without asking me. I swallowed my tears, thinking marriage was all about patience. But this time, everything changed.

That afternoon, I withdrew 50,000 rupees from our joint savings account—the money we’d saved to buy a house. I knew Rajesh would be upset, but my mother needed surgery immediately. She called, crying:
“Anjali, I can’t take it anymore. The doctor said I have to have surgery, or else…”

Without hesitation, I made an appointment to meet my mother at a small coffee shop near our house, sneaking around like a thief. When I gave her the money, my hands were shaking:
“Take it, Mom. Get your treatment done. I’ll explain it to Rajesh later.”

Kamla grabbed my hand, her eyes red:
“You’ve suffered because of me.”

But before I could say anything else, Rajesh stormed into the shop. His face was red, his eyes bulging:
“Anjali! What are you doing? This is our money!”

It turned out he had been following me from the house, suspicious because he had seen me withdrawing the money. He snatched the money from my mother’s hand and shouted:
“Go back to your city, don’t take advantage of your daughter anymore! This money belongs to me, to my family!”

My mother was stunned, tears welling up in her eyes, and I was speechless. Everyone in the restaurant was looking at us and whispering. I tried to stop him:
“Brother, let me explain. Mom needs money for heart surgery…”

But Rajesh wouldn’t listen. He pushed me away:
“How can I explain? You always think about your mother, what about me? You betrayed me!”

He left, leaving my mother trembling.

That night, when we got home, a fight broke out. Rajesh slammed the table:
“Do you think I’m stupid? 50,000 rupees! You gave it all to your mother, how will we survive? You’re so selfish, Anjali!”

I burst into tears:
“You’re so selfish! My mother is very ill, don’t you care? Money can be distributed, but human life is more important!”
Rajesh sarcastically said:
“Human life? She’s old, how long will she live? We’re young, we have to worry about the future!”

These words pierced my heart like a knife. We argued all night, Rajesh asked for a divorce, and I decided that if he didn’t change, I would leave him.

The next morning, Rajesh was still angry, took the money to work, and said he would deposit it in the bank. I stayed home, called my mother, and consoled her. But late in the afternoon, Rajesh came home, pale-faced, money in hand, kneeling before me:

“Anjali, I was wrong. I… I’m sorry.”

I was shocked:
“What happened to you?”

Rajesh said in a trembling voice:
“I took the money to the bank, but the staff checked it… it turned out it was fake. It was all fake!”

I was stunned. Fake money? I withdrew it from the real account!

It turned out that the 50,000 rupees I had withdrawn were not from the joint account, but from a sum Rajesh had secretly hidden. Last month, he had taken a bribe from a construction contractor—50,000 rupees as “grease money.” He hid the money from me, and to avert his eyes, he had put fake money in the account instead of real money. When I withdrew the money, I was actually withdrawing fake money that he had prepared himself.

Rajesh thought I wouldn’t find out, but when he took the money to the bank, the employees immediately found out. He was almost arrested, but luckily, he was only warned for “ignorance.”

The truth embarrassed Rajesh. He – who always preached about money and responsibility – was greedy and took bribes. And I – whom he scolded for being selfish – accidentally “saved” him from jail by taking counterfeit money for my mother.

If I hadn’t withdrawn the money, he would have kept it hidden and used it for wrong purposes.

When my mother found out about this, she smiled sadly:

“Okay, my child, let me take care of it. I still have a piece of land in Lucknow; I’ll sell it and pay for the surgery.”

It turned out he had hidden his personal property from me.

The fight between Rajesh and me wasn’t just about money, but about the lie. Rajesh knelt down and apologized, promised to change, and returned the bribe money. I forgave him, but our trust was broken.

We started over, but I knew the pile of money had changed everything. Now, whenever Rajesh saw the money, he remembered the humiliation and began to value his family even more.

From then on, Rajesh became an ideal husband and sent money to my mother regularly. As for me, I learned that truth is sometimes painful, but it’s the key to liberation.

Life is like a pile of money—beautiful on the outside, but fake on the inside. And most importantly, Rajesh’s greed overcame him.

The night after Rajesh knelt down to apologize, a strange silence suddenly descended on that small apartment in the suburbs of New Delhi. I sat by the window, watching the busy traffic at the yellow lights. My heart was restless: love, anger, and grief.

Rajesh confessed everything. He shed tears, spoke of the pressures of work, the temptations of contractors, and the helplessness of watching his colleagues become so rich so quickly. He said he had confessed just to give it a try… but then, unwittingly, I had revealed the secret.

“I swear, Anjali, I will pay everything back. I don’t want to lose you. Don’t leave me,” Rajesh held my hand tightly, his voice breaking.

I looked into his eyes—the same eyes that had shaken me in college—now filled with fear and humiliation. I saw a weakened Rajesh, no longer as arrogant as before. But this was the same man who had yelled at my mother, who had considered his life worthless.

In the days that followed, I felt lost in two worlds.

During the day, I went to work at the bank, smiling at customers, but the question lingered in my mind: Would I be able to trust Rajesh?

At night, I heard him whisper beside me: “I’m sorry… I’m really sorry…” But whenever I closed my eyes, I saw my mother crying in the coffee shop that day.

My mother called from Lucknow:
“Anjali, my daughter, forgive or let go, it’s your decision. Don’t think you have to suffer because of me. You deserve a happy life.”

His words were like a second blow, piercing the turmoil in my heart.

One evening, Rajesh and I were sitting face to face in the living room. Two cups of ginger tea were on the table. I decided to speak frankly:

“Rajesh, I’ve thought a lot. You said you’d change, but change doesn’t come with promises. I need to see action. If you want me to stay, show me how.”

He nodded, tears in his eyes:
“I will. Tomorrow I’ll go to the boss and tell him the whole story about the bribery. Even if I get punished, even if I lose my job, I’ll still agree. Just stay with me.”

I was stunned. At that moment, I saw a ray of light—not in Rajesh, but in myself. I realized that this decision wasn’t just about him, but also about my self-respect.

A few days later, Rajesh did as he had promised. He admitted his guilt, risking a severe reprimand and losing his job. His coworkers gossiped, his family in the countryside called to blame him, but Rajesh didn’t hide his face. He came home, hugged me, and cried:

“I have nothing to hide from you now. If you leave, I won’t blame you.”

I was silent. My heart was still hurt, but there was also a glimmer of hope. I hadn’t completely forgiven, nor could I. I… decided to wait.

From then on, we lived in a state of uncertainty. Rajesh tried every day: he cooked for me, sent money regularly to my mother, and stopped complaining about being overly frugal. But in my eyes, the shadow of the past still lingered.

I understood that forgiveness wasn’t a decision made in an instant, but a long journey. And I – Anjali – was still on the same path, not knowing whether the end would be a happy family or an inevitable separation.